


arizona dragons

by Nomette



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch! Reaper - Freeform, Blackwatch!Jesse, M/M, Magical Realism, fuck Orientalism if there's dragons in Japan there's dragons everywhere, pre-dissolution of Overwatch, young! Hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomette/pseuds/Nomette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The letter from the United States came in an envelope stamped with a grinning skull, and it stank of gunpowder and alcohol. Hanzo’s father scanned it with hard eyes, then pushed it across the table to Hanzo. </p>
<p>“To our honored trading partners, the Shimada Clan,” it began. “We find ourselves in need of someone with a very particular set of skills…”</p>
<p>Two days later, Hanzo was on a plane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	arizona dragons

Hanzo Shimada came to Arizona in the summer of his twenty-fifth year of life, when the heat lay so heavy on the land that even the asphalt of the roads cracked, forming fissures that gasped out heated air like dying mouths. There was not a heat such as this in Japan.

Hanzo’s contact was a tall, lean boy with the mangy smile of a dog. In ten years, maybe, it might suit him, but not now. Hanzo did not smile back. There was a gun on the stranger’s hip, and it made Hanzo regret that he’d left his bow in his suitcase.

“Don’t worry, darlin’, if I wanted you dead, I’d draw. But this ain’t no heat to be fightin’ in. It’s a bad season. Ground’s too thirsty for blood these days.”

“Are you Jesse McCree?” Hanzo demanded, displeased that the man had caught him looking. There was something he didn’t like in the other man’s face; despite all his smiles, he had the dead eyes of an animal.

“Could be. Are you Hanzo Shimada?” The man’s tongue stretched out the syllables, said the a too long and too high, turned it into someone else’s name.

“Yes,” Hanzo said, and wished he wasn’t. The americans had requested him in specific; it seemed they were having a problem with a dragon of their own, and wished someone with experience in these sort of things. Genji had been sulky and uncooperative, as always, and so it had fallen to Hanzo to fly to a desert on the other side of the world to suffer this malevolent heat.

“Well, welcome to America, Mr. Shimada. Fraid it’s a bad time to come, but that’s why we called you, fer some trouble shootin’. Follow me.” The airport that they’d flown into was nothing more than a few runways and a barn tucked in between the rocky red mountains, and Hanzo was willing to bet that there were no records of it on any government register. He stepped reluctantly into the sun and followed McCree to an old pickup. The air had been left running, at least, and the engine purred when McCree shifted the gears.

“There’s a shotgun in the door case’ the feds pull up, but I figure you’d ruther your bow. If you wanna get it from the back, now’s the time.” The pickup was bigger than Hanzo had guessed from the outside, big enough that he could draw his bow if he rolled down the window, and it moved with a hungry power that made Hanzo suspect that the beat-up outside was mostly for show.

McCree tore off from the airport like an arrow, his hand moving quickly through the pickup gears. As far as Hanzo’s eyes could see, the land around the airport was nothing but red, jutting rocks populated by cacti and scrub. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Hanzo had the sense that the land was being crushed under the malevolent hand of the sun.

“So,” he said, and he had the sense that the whole land was listening, the sun glaring in through the clear windows bright enough to crisp his skin, “what have you called me to this place for?”

“Not now,” Jesse said. “Ain’t you supposed to be a dragon whisperer? This ain’t no time for that kind of talk. Gotta keep my mind on the road.” Hanzo bit back a rude retort. The road in front of them stretched all the way into the shining horizon, a long, straight ribbon of grey through the cracked red land.

“I fail to see what there is to concentrate on,” Hanzo said.

“Well, then you ain’t lookin hard enough,” McCree said, terse. Hanzo stared out the windows, scanning the land as it whizzed by, but there was nothing, only the cracked land and the shimmer of the sun. Well, let this cowboy sit in silence then; Hanzo had no real wish to talk to him. It was his boss who had called him in, Gabriel Reyes; let him explain to Hanzo why it was necessary that he of all people be called across the ocean to this burning land. Outside, the blue in the sky was being eaten by a light so wide and so large it seemed that at any moment it might expand to fill the entire sky. A great shadow was on the ground, as though of a bird, but Hanzo knew of no bird with wings wider than a four lane highway.

“Thunderbird,” McCree said, grim, and jammed on the accelerator. “Get that bow of yours ready.” The dragons shifted under Hanzo’s skin, and he pulled his sleeve up to cover them, his burned skin protesting the rub of his kimono. The shadow grew larger, the light coming in through the windows wilder, strong enough to pierce straight through Hanzo’s clothes, and then there was a great clap of thunder, and the shadow was gone.

“This is an uncivilized place,” Hanzo said, his pulse still thundering in his throat.

“It sure is,” McCree said. “Hope you weren’t expecting anything too fancy, Mr. Shimada,” and the honorific was mocking in his mouth. Hanzo felt anger growing in him and forced it down. This was no time to run hot. He breathed in and thought of home, of the rain that fell and fell and fell from the sky, and of trees that gave shade, and of the crisp, cold feel of snow. Soon, this mission would be over, and Hanzo would return home. Until then, Hanzo would stay out of the sun and keep his head cold.

“You like country?” McCree asked. Hanzo did not, but they listened to country all the long way to the Blackwatch base.

 

At last, they turned into a small canyon, the pick-up going down, down, down, until at least they reached a cave. McCree flipped on the lights, and they lurched into the cavernous dark.

“Now that we’re in the base, I reckon we can talk. Drivin’s real hazardous these days, with the sun on the rampage. I wouldn’t drive on my own if I was you.” Hanzo just barely resisted the urge to retort that he was nothing like a scruffy cowboy and never would be.

“I had not heard that the american southwest was so full of kami.”

“I don’t know what those might be. You mean them thunderbirds? They always been here, but they’re hungry lately. What with the fires, there’s not much food for them.”

“Fires?”

“We’re in a drought.”

“The sun…”  Hanzo paused, reaching for his English. The sun was wrong, somehow, but he wasn’t sure how to say it. “Is the sun always like this?”

“Nope. We got lucky with this here base. Built it for smuggling, but it does a good job at staying cool. As to your question, no. The sun ain’t supposed to be like this at all. That’s why you’re here. Something or another has got the locals in a tizzy, and figure that you might be able to talk to ‘em.”

“The dragons have a historic association with the Shimada clan,” Hanzo replied stiffly. “That does not mean I am familiar with your american spirits.”

“I reckon not. But they won’t talk to us. Said they want someone more respectable than a bunch of scruffy smugglers. But there ain’t no one respectable left round these parts. We run ‘em all off.” Hanzo was beginning to feel cold. The temperature had dropped as soon as they entered the cave and continued to drop. They were surrounded by a darkness so complete that even Hanzo’s eyes, which had been trained for years, could pick out nothing.

“I wouldn’t stare out the window,” McCree remarked. Hanzo grunted and turned away, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. There was something in the dark. Of course there was something in the dark. McCree didn’t seem tense. He had one hand on the wheel and one propped up against the door, but he was staring fixedly into the path made by the headlights.

“I would guess that policemen who try to follow you down don’t make it to the base,” Hanzo remarked acidly.

“Right on the money, darlin’,” McCree said, and grinned. There was a small light up ahead; the pickup jolted and passed into a cavern lit by electric lights. McCree parked his pickup next to the wall, and walked around the side to open Hanzo’s door and let him out.

“I am not a woman, for you to let me out,” Hanzo grumbled.

“No harm in bein’ polite,” McCree said. “Come on. We gotta gift to give.” There was a stack of beers by the wall; Budweiser, a shiity american beer. McCree handed one to Hanzo, then walked to the black entrance of the cavern. There was something strange about the way the light just stopped at the exit, as though it had hit a wall. McCree popped the tab on his beer and poured it out on the ground. The darkness inched forward , until it was a single line of darkness, a tongue that lapped at the beer. When he was done, McCree set the beer down at the edge of the entrance, and something snapped it up with sharp jaws.

“I’d just throw yours,” he said to Hanzo. “They like to play games with newcomers. Throw it real far, impress them.” Hanzo stepped back from the edge and lined up his shot. There was a stalactite at the top of the cavern: it looked like teeth. He pulled his hand back and threw as hard as he could, bouncing the beer off the top of the entrance, just inside the light, and then out into the dark. There was a great crunch.

“Budweiser?” McCree shrugged.

“I’m more of a bourbon man myself, but I reckon they like the taste of the cans. Gabe says so, anyhow, and I ain’t gonna argue with him.” Gabriel Reyes, the leader of Blackwatch, the person who had called in the favor to bring Hanzo to this awful country to begin with.

McCree led them into the cavern. A scruffy looking bunch of men were seated around a campfire, talking to a coyote.

“McCree, Hanzo,” one of them said. He was dark-skinned, dressed in all black, with a heavy shotgun at his side and a white owl perched on his shoulder. There was nothing alike between him and Hanzo’s father, but Hanzo felt a similar shiver when the dark eyes landed on him. This was not a man to cross.

“Reyes-san,” Hanzo said. “Thank you for sending someone to pick me up.” Reye’s eyes flickered over Hanzo, not saying anything, and Hanzo resisted the urge to straighten up, to try to look bigger. Whatever they needed him for, he was enough.

“Welcome to our base,” Reyes said at last. His voice was deep, and there was something crackling in it. The owl laughed. It was a nasty, cold sound. Both McCree and Reyes ignored it.

“How was the drive?” Reyes said to McCree, who straightened. If McCree was a coyote, grinning and arrogant, Reyes was a wolf, and McCree didn’t want to get bitten.

“Glarin’,” McCree said. “Soon ain’t no one gonna be able to drive on those roads.”

“Well, good thing we got that deadeye of yours,” Reyes said. “Come and sit by the fire.” McCree went. If Hanzo wasn’t mistaken, there was something unhappy in his face, but he hid it quickly. Three women were seated around the fire; one of them handed McCree a drink, who offered it to Hanzo.

“I’m fine,” he said. There was a coyote sitting by the fire: it raised its head and spoke.

“I’ll take the drink, if you don’t want it.”

“Shove off,” McCree said. This was too much for Hanzo, who had come to america expecting to be handed a picture of a target and escorted to a rooftop. He sat in silence while Reyes and McCree traded jabs with the coyotes, laughing about some kind of a mission that they’d run ages ago.

“Not real friendly, is he?” One of the coyotes said slyly.

“I don’t know. You real friendly, Hanzo?” McCree asked.

“I am not,” Hanzo said, aware that he was being made fun of and not sure how to make it stop. The coyote laughed like it had never heard anything funnier, and the women and Reyes joined in.

“Well, I reckon that’s enough, then,” McCree said, and stood. “You must be about ready to drop. Come one, I’ll take you to your room.” Reyes watched them as they stood and left, his gaze making Hanzo’s skin prickle. At this range, Reyes would put a bullet in Hanzo before he’d even drawn his string back, but Hanzo still longed to hold an arrow.

“Don’t mind the boss,” McCree said once they were into the corridor. “His boyfriend’s back in the states and he’s real heated about it.”

“His boyfriend?” McCree snorted.

“Ah, don’t mind me. Lemme just say, though, you see a man with white hair come through, don’t talk to him. Boss gets real serious when he sees people talking to higher ups without him.” Hanzo nodded. His family hadn’t done much business with Overwatch, but it was useful to know where the tensions were. They reached a room and McCree punched a code into a keypad to get the door to swing open, then waved Hanzo in.

“This gonna be your quarters,” he said, and pointed through a door. “I’ll be right on the other side of that door. I don’t recommend you snoop too much. Boss will knock your teeth right out. We’ll be driving up at night, so I recommend you stay up late as you can, try to get your sleep set right.” Hanzo’s room was small, but neat, with a bed, a small refrigerator, and a television. It looked like some had taken a hotel room and transplanted it into the earth. McCree tracked his gaze to the fridge and laughed.

“That’s full of booze.” McCree ambled over to the fridge, took out a bottle and popped off the top with his metal hand, then handed it to Hanzo.

“How’d you get that?” Hanzo asked, grateful that his own limbs were all still in place.

“That’s at least a two beer story,” McCree said. Hanzo considered. He was tired, almost exhausted from the long flight and the strange drive through the desert, but his father had sent him to gather information and win goodwill, and he would do neither of those things while sitting alone in this stone tomb, drinking by himself.

“Nevertheless, I would like to hear it,” he said.

 

The cowboy’s first name turned out to be Jesse, and he was much less insufferable after Hanzo’s fourth beer. The grim stare had fallen away once they got out of sight of Reyes and McCree had revealed himself to be a silly man with a knack for saying outrageous things in just the right way to make Hanzo laugh, though Hanzo tried to hide it. Something about McCree's careless ways of talking reminded him of Genji, if Genji had been twice the size and half as serious. Hanzo pushed the thought away, and returned to talking with McCree. Genji was in Japan; Genji would never come to the US, never be anything other than what he was. Hanzo had enough trouble here without bringing more from home. He turned his attention back to McCree.

“What kind of name is Jesse?” Hanzo asked. Jesse had progressed from sitting on Hanzo’s bed to lying on it sideways, curled protectively around his drink like a great cat. He blinked when Hanzo asked him the question, then started to laugh, his chest rising and falling with the movement.

“Yeah? Well, Hanzo is exactly what I would expect a s-s-samurai to be called. Han-zo. You look just like I thought too. Maybe a little cuter, that’s all.”

“I am not cute,” Hanzo said. The cowboy was in the habit of making outrageous pronouncements, which Hanzo had been studiously ignoring. “You are a ridiculous drunk. I thought cowboys were supposed to be silent.”

“I’m sure some of them are,” McCree said, laughing. “We can’t all be Clint Eastwood, though. Someone’s got to keep morale up in this hole, and it might as well be me.” He rolled onto his back, tipping the drink into his mouth. Earlier in the conversation he had taken off his coat and poncho and thrown them into his room, revealing a button-up shirt. With the hat and boots gone, he looked almost like a regular american, an ordinary farmer with broad, muscular forearms crisscrossed with knife scars.

“What happened here?” Hanzo asked, leaning over.

“Price of admission,” McCree said, and yawned. “Left my old gang to run with this one. Suppose you were just born into your gang, huh?”

“I am a Shimada,” Hanzo said, unsure if that would mean anything to the lout stretched out on his bed. “So, yes.” One of Hanzo’s earliest memories was his mother coming into the room, blood splattered across her kimono, sword in hand, ready to fight, then wordlessly walking out when no intruder presented themselves. He’d never known who she killed, but he hadn’t had to. Whatever Mother did, it was correct.

“You old families,” McCree said. “Like the Hatfields and the McCoy’s. Suppose there’s worse things to be.” Hanzo couldn't make any sense of this remark, but it looked as though McCree was falling asleep on his bed. Hanzo very much wanted to sleep himself. He prodded McCree with one finger.

“Move. Go sleep on your own bed.”

“Oh, sure,” McCree said, yawning, and stood. “Sorry. We’re a disrespectful bunch here. Guess that’s why we need you. I’ll be by in about eight hours to try and get some talking done and in the meantime don’t take any bullshit from the coyotes.”  

“Goodbye,” Hanzo said firmly, and then McCree was in his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Hanzo turned off the lights and lay down in his bed. He fell asleep with the gossip of the coyotes ringing in his ears; though they spoke in english, he understood nothing but their endless, mocking laughter.

  


**Author's Note:**

> -Heavily inspired by Ursula Vernon's "The Tomato Thief", a far better story than I could ever write. Check her out!  
> \- Look, buddy, if there's dragons in Japan there's dragons everywhere, I'm not having any of this mystical far east bullshit. There's as much magic in open skies and red hills and cacti as anything else, and more than some.  
> -My mom used to tell me stories about Tio Coyote when I was growing up, but these fellas are a little more savvy than he is. 
> 
> Shoot me a message over at [Nomette](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nomette) if you're so inclined! I'm always up for yelling about video game dudes.


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